Author’s note
This story came as a very hard write. And although I made even more mistakes than admitted to here, these are quite enough to illustrate to others what “not” to do to a hunting son or daughter.
In all the years I’ve been a father, neither of my children have ever been physically reprimanded. I simply loved them limitlessly and without much condition. That is nothing attached such as the proverbial “strings…”
As this saddening time unfolded and I pretty much saw some of it “coming,” I recalled a verse I once read on a boulder in the picturesque Ligonier mountains of south-western Pennsylvania. It read about like this:
“If you love something, you must let it go free,
If it comes back to you, it is yours forever.
If it doesn’t, then it never was…”
I know not the author’s name, only that his “advice” in my case, worked…
Shades of Gray
Sometimes we allow the most precious things in our lives to slip through our fingers and only come to learn just how very precious they were after they’re gone. Then it may well be too late. And not so very long ago, I nearly suffered the greatest loss of my lifetime; the companionship and boundless joy of having a hunting son walking the autumn woods with me…
We’d shared two wonderful seasons together. We’d become a team and knew, intimately, the true meaning of quality time together, a lot of which took place in the northwoods, where we played the roles of predators. But the fun, the most memorable moments came not from the taking of game, but instead were born through observation. Born of the mystique only Nature can provide; of the laughs She so generously gives to the hearts of hunters.
I closely scrutinized my son’s every reaction, his eyes, after he killed an animal. Using a God-given father’s perception, I tried to determine if he, as so many of us do, felt the blending of remorsefulness and elation at the moment of taking an animal’s life. And, it wasn’t long before I knew he had all the necessary ingredients for becoming the ethical hunter I wished for; as well as the requirements needed for becoming a competent, proficient hunter. We adults, however, cannot and should not expect, nor insist our children become hunters simply because of our love of the challenge.
Naturally the predator is in there, as it is in all men, but we can merely cultivate our children with the ardent hope that our efforts bear the fruit of dreams. But never should we push too aggressively, expect too much, or even hint at insisting they make precious few mistakes, for I’ve been there and the trip was awful.
A while back, I thought I’d done everything just right. My son, Justin, shot quite well with everything I handed him; from pistol, to shotgun to rifle. He had an appreciation and deep respect for wild things, life and places, such as I’d never before seen in a young man. He’d passed on shots at whitetails simply because he wasn’t certain of making the ever-important, instant kill, shots that most seasoned men would have tried regardless of outcome. And he lacked the all-too-common “greed.” One morning, when the gray squirrels were as active as I’d ever seen them, he chose to stop hunting after about two hours. “I have three, Pop, and you have two. That’s plenty for our supper and a late-night snack. Let’s head back to camp.” So, even though I was having the time of my squirrel-hunting life, I instantly recognized this commendable attribute in him, and simply said, “Okay, Partner!”
As that season wore sweetly on, I made progressive and paramount mistakes insofar as being the mentor, the hunting teacher. I got angry at the smallest things, such as during the fall turkey season when he’d merely turned his head too abruptly while on stand. I repeatedly twisted my face to form looks of disgust when he’d walk too fast while stillhunting and sounded verbal reprimand when he’d innocently snap an underfoot twig. And the list goes on. I tried to rationalize my criticisms in an effort to feel better myself, by telling myself I was only doing these things so he could soon come to know the magic of taking yet another whitetail…
On the first Friday of deer season, I’d passed a 25-yard shot at the largest whitetailed buck I’d seen in some 35 years of hunting them. All with the hope that my son could put him down. As the buck slinked past on my side of the morning stand, I could feel my heart become uncommonly unstable; I was always cool during those seconds. But this time my excitement was for my son, all in anticipation of Justin getting a great trophy in just his second season. It just wasn’t to be, not in the “cards” as they say, and I made yet another mistake by perhaps expecting too much of “my” young hunter?
As I turned to see whether he’d gotten ready to take this once-in-a-lifetime shot, I saw his rifle lying against an old railroad tie on the ground of the old tractor shanty we used as a sort of concealing stand. The buck was to our right, still unaware of our presence and now about 60-yards off and hotfooting it for thick cover. Wise as he surely was, he seemed to know he’d stayed too long at the dance and he slinked along quickly while progressively quickening his pace. Justin had initially seen him and alerted my attention as I had my back turned to that side of the old, rundown shanty. But now, the buck was farther away and following a tree line and Justin’s view of him was partially obstructed. There may have been an opportunity for a veteran hunter as the deer passed a few more open places, but to Justin’s mind, those shots were too chancey. I wasn’t thinking in my excitement and whispered loudly, telling him to “shoot!” His rifle, now mounted, swung with the trotting buck but never sounded. Furious with the overwhelming disappointment I felt for him, I said, “Justin, that’s the buck whose rubes we saw in early fall! Remember? I said we’d be well-blessed to ever see him? Why we’ll never see that buck again!”
I could see his cheeks drain of color, his eyes fill with certain, unimaginable disappointment. He was hurt, not so much because he’d lost a chance at this great deer, but even more, because he felt he’d let me down by missing such an opportunity at this very special animal. And yes, I, wrong as I was then, verbally reprimanded him for not having his rifle in hand at prime-time, 7:19 a.m. Had I noticed the rifle on the ground, as perhaps I should have, it would have been an altogether different story…
Just seconds, however, after that rather irrational behavior on my part, when indeed I should have been providing consolation, words of comfort to him, Justin said, “There he goes, Pop!” I turned to see the buck come bursting from the woodlot below us, hightailing it about 150-yards away. Apparently, another hunter was in there and spooked him into a change of heart? I whispered loudly, “Shoot!” But, by the time Justin swung into position for the shot, the deer was at a quartering angle, a tough shot for any hunter, and Justin’s shot missed cleanly. I knew it, and I believe he felt it?
There was just one reaction from the buck to make me hope he’d been hit. He turned very sharply, and tore through a thick stand of pines toward a swamp in the valley below – a swamp with a perimeter plastered with “No Hunting” signs. I checked as far as legally possible for sign of a hit, and decided then and there to follow him if he was hit, signs or no signs. A dusting of snow which was so thin as to be transparent covered the ground. I found not a cut hair, drop of blood or any indication proving the buck took a hit. Just mussed the leaves upturned, to show he was in high gear and not slowing…
Justin was watching from our morning stand while I tracked and as I exited the thicket, he no doubt saw the “No-Such-Luck” look in my eyes? As I walked toward him, I realized how he must have felt, the heaviness in his young heart, the pain of almost knowing for certain he’d never again get a chance at a buck like that. I vowed, then and there, not to cultivate the hurt inside him by talking more of his mistake. It was our hunt, therefore, our mistake. We instead, rejoiced a few moments after I’d returned, however little, because of this great blessing bestowed upon us by the Red Gods. We had seen what we felt in our hearts, the greatest buck of the north country. At least we agreed he must be, and although neither of us ever voiced it, I believe there was a certain gladness filling our hearts, just knowing he was still out “there.” An animal of all hunters’ dreams; a buck that would surely provide more magic, mystery and excitement to future hunts.
That season ended with no venison in the family larder and there was little talk of season memories. The wrong I’d done must have stuck with Justin? All of the near-flawless things I expected of a young hunter were indeed, it seemed, too much for him. And even though I realized this, it was too later? Justin knew, however, how deeply sorry I was for getting angry with him from time to time in the hunting woods as my apologies were countless.
More importantly, those apologies were not quite enough to prevent the great loss I was about to suffer. The loss of the best hunting partner I’d ever known and, at the time, there seemed little hope in preventing it…
His words, which were devastating to me, came in the heat of the following summer, hitting me with several thousand foot-pounds of energy. I’d asked him to go to the rifle range with me for a little off-hand practice. “Pop,” he said, head down and not making eye contact as usual, “I don’t think I’m gonna hunt anymore.”
I know not what expression I wore, nor the shock that surely was revealed in my eyes, but I know I hurt deeply and greatly and more than ever before in my life. “Why not, Justin?” I questioned casually. All the while knowing I’d done the irreparable damage by putting too much pressure on him? I also knew what he was feeling, but no, not exactly “how” badly. Justin loves the woods, the hunting, the sights and sounds; all that which goes with the woodland “package.” What disturbed him most, was that he felt he was disappointing me. In his heart, perhaps feeling, he simply couldn’t be “..as good as old Pop.” And although that was hardly the case, I knew I had a tough row to hoe before autumn…
Autumn came on fast it seemed and it was just two weeks until the early small game season. A time we always looked forward to for it meant grouse and squirrel hunting, each of which we enjoyed greatly. I questioned Justin numerous times as to whether he’d changed his mind about hunting with me. But this time, I realized I was making yet another mistake, before it came across to him as my pushing too hard. And his answer was always the same: “I don’t know, Pop. I just don’t know yet…” A cumbrous load for a father’s heart. His indecision had me toying with my moustache until I worried about there being little left of it…
The leaves were as only The Master could paint them as I looked across the mountainous expanse from our kitchen window. While drinking coffee and feeling sorry for what I’d done, I felt a little soul-searching may be the ticket to buffering the pain, somewhat? I recalled the words of Kahlil Gibran, a Lebanese philosopher who had profound wisdom. In his verse on children he said, “You may give them your love, but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies, but not their souls. For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you…” Summoning those words from an aging memory confirmed just how wrong I’d been.
As early small game season drew nearer, I constantly searched my son’s eyes for that sparkle which may be the signal indicating, “..the predator is back.” The look I so longed to see wasn’t there. Time grew shorter and my hope Justin’s change of heart would accompany the forest’s changing of the guard, was melting away. I decided on a trip to the woods during a day of “What-To-Do-With-Myself.” Hoping it would provide a sort of therapy I so badly needed?
I drove to the camp of a friend and when I arrived, I entered with the key he’d hidden for me and made myself at home, borrowing a pair of hip boots. He mentioned I would need them to cross Babb Creek, the only access to decent hunting woods.
I crossed the creek lacking the usual excitement I always felt when spotting animal sign. I, of course, thought of Justin and wished he were with me. “He would just love this hollow, this hemlock grove, the smell of decaying leaves…” I thought. But, this scouting trip was for me and only me…
The creek was fast and high from recent autumn rains. After crossing, I sat to change from hip boots to nylon turf shoes, my favorite for scouting since they’re quiet and virtually slip-free. I stood and turned to face a steep incline just before me, thick with looming, gray beeches, oak and hickory trees. They almost seemed to be daring me, as though they were Nature’s own sentries, standing guard.
At the top of the incline lay a bench, seemingly “plowed” by the cloven hooves of whitetails. There were feeder trails, old trails, heavily used master trails and secondary trails and long ago, abandoned trails. The sylvan magic, and every sight and sound refreshed me, somewhat dejected, spirit. The trenchant scolding of jays seems to awaken the indweller, that inner-voice so enchanting, alluring and beckoning, which mysteriously whispers to me, “Come, walk around the next bend, climb the next hill, drink in more of my endless beauty for certainly you shant live long enough to taste of it all…” Every hunter knows that “voice?” The strange part being, we never grow out of this seemingly childish sense of adventure, for it’s spellbinding even to the mature mind, the oldest heart; magical?
Sunlight filtered through the endless variety of seemingly virgin timber, spraying colorful rays of soft, pastel-like light on everything in its path. I ducked my way through an old stand of hemlock, much like a hunter starving, but instinctively. I recalled the stillhunting lessons I’d tried to teach Justin: “Always walk slowly, quietly and observantly, like the drifting smoke of a campfire. Remember the lessons of our brothers, the native Americans, who wisely advise, step once, look twice…”
Emerging from the sheltering hemlocks, I noticed an ancient, giant hickory, its bark curled to the point where I laughed to myself, saying aloud, “Mother Nature must have been angry with you as you were growing up? You have a most unkempt look about your skin…” But how old must you be, I thought. What I would give to know of the forest what you must know; what I would give to see all the trophy bucks that have passed you by.
Walking a few more steps, I saw where, what must have been a spike, a sapling buck, scarred a whip-like sapling. “Rubbing early?” I thought, “Or perhaps his head was merely itchy?” I sat to rest, think, absorb and eat a sandwich I’d stuffed haphazardly into my vest. The placid interlude went well, but the sandwich went uneaten, for even though my spirits were higher, they were not where they usually were during times like these; the last time I enjoyed an energizing sandwich in the woods, my son sat with me. And none of what I was doing now, what I was so trying to enjoy, seemed quite right. There was an aching emptiness inside my hunter’s heart, one alleged to be tough – calloused…
Looking at the rub on the sapling, I thought ,”Young buck. Perhaps searching for an elder to show him the survival ropes?” I then looked toward the more prominent aged hickory which, strangely seemed to have this almost living wisdom about it. “Mother Nature is illustrating a lesson of some sort here?” Perhaps I was the hickory, Justin the sapling? “That’s it!” I said. And was certain the hickory had it “fruitless” seasons, a mistake of Nature, and, too, I felt certain the fragile sapling, so tender yet, would make a comeback, healing from the scars made by the young, rubbing buck. I, oddly enough, felt renewed. I could almost feel a stirring inside that told me Justin would have a change of heart and, once again, hunt with his father; healing from the “scars?”
I was feeling somewhat better about my day alone. I’d perhaps, learned a lesson or two, though that remained to be seen. I continued my scouting and soon flushed several ruffed grouse from a spit of grape tangles. I moved at least a dozen deer, found an abundance of sign, from turkeys, to foxes, coyotes, and bears. And, I spotted an almost overwhelming number of grays, Justin’s second favorite game animal. I felt, all along, the forest was telling me something and I felt compelled to keep a very open mind to Her precious, perhaps vital to my cause, lessons…
I left the mountain, rushing from the serenity of the woods like never before. I forded the stream as though the hound of Baskerville were snapping at my hind quarters and drove home as quickly as law would allow. I felt like a man reprieved, for however wrong I’d been over the past two seasons, I now felt hope, a dream of deep existence now had a chance of becoming reality; Justin may come back?
At supper that evening, he asked casually, “How’d you do out there today, Pop? Enjoy yourself?”
“Oh, Okay I’d say.” I answered while toying nervously with my moustache, no doubt giving myself away?
“Did ya see any deer?”
“Yep. Dozen or so maybe, but brother, did I see the gray squirrels! Good mast crop this year and they’re everywhere! I may even hunt that area at least one morning.” Justin came back then, with something that made me thankful my heart was strong…
“Really? Boy, Pop, I love hunting grays! They’re darn near like hunting deer in the big woods, aren’t they?” Without an opportunity to respond, he continued, “I remember your telling me to hunt ‘em like ya would whitetails, slow and quiet. And to search every tree crotch for little bumps that don’t seem to belong. Grays,” he joked, “are the second gray-test! Of course you now what my favorite game animal is, right Pop? But honestly, I love ‘em the same, just differently, ya know?”
“Yep, I sure do my son, I sure do know.” All the while forcing myself to leave well enough alone. He just may come around; and yes. I whispered a silent “Thanks” for the “wisdom” provided by the mountain, the aged hickory, the gray sentry-like hardwoods which seemed to beckon me onto the mountain, and, of course, the scarred, fragile sapling, the key in this sylvan course on fatherhood… I said not another word, for I felt I may inadvertently alter his attitude which seemed to be favoring my heartfelt desires. Potpourri conversation finished out our suppertime…
The following Friday, I went for my hunting license – alone and gain, a bit heavy in the heart. Justin and I for the past couple of years had made this a special occasion. Justin being with me meant a great deal and thoughts of hunting without him made me seriously consider hanging up the old Fox and the Ruger rifle I’d grown to love over the years. “Me,” I thought, “the same father who told his son he may one day have to take me to the deer woods in a wheelchair.” I’d said, violating a firm rule in journalism and fatherhood and life? Never say never. But losing my son as a partner, this young man who made the woods and hunting even more special than God may have intended, placed a wad of doubt in my mind…
I returned home from town with my license, went into the house, and tossed my lisence and all that came with it on the kitchen table. My wife Linda, greeted me with a smile and a hug that seemed out of place since she knew of my mood. But she was grinning from ear to ear, reminding me of a Cheshire cat that had just swallowed a blue-ribbon canary. “What’s all this about?” I questioned, “Where’s Justin and Erika?” She told me they were upstairs; that Justin was teaching Erika some math on the chalkboard.
“Go on up!” she said, “See what we bought on the way home from school today…”
Upstairs, I greeted each with the usual hug and kiss, then Justin said, “C’mon into my room for a minute, Pop. I have something to show you.” And there he merely pointed to his desktop and upon it lay a small dream – my dream – bearing the numbers of his new hunting license. To me it looked as beautiful as a Ned Smith painting. And not knowing quite what to say, or how to react, I, lump-throated as I was, managed, “I’m glad, Son. So, so glad.” I hugged him, ruffled his hair and left the room, saying, “You’ll be glad you bought it, Partner. Grays everywhere on that mountain.”
We spent a great deal of time at camp, quality time together. Sharing laughs and feelings from deep inside which only seem to escape during times like these. We ate lunches so big one would have thought there wasn’t going to be another autumn sunrise; and shot targets to where they were nothing but confetti. Autumn had once again, become meaningful to me…
Late one afternoon, I challenged Justin to a shooting match, whereby we’d use his .22 rimfire rifle topped with a big game, 4X Tasco scope Five rounds by each shooter, tightest group would win. A tie, meant there would be a shoot off, ultimately ending with the “loser” performing camp KP duty before we left.
Our groups were close in size, although I thought his were a shade tighter. Still, he insisted on the shoot-off. I said, “Okay, Partner, but I think yours is better covered by the nickel!”
We laughed when he said, “You probably used a quarter to cover mine, Pop!” Then added, “Why is it you almost always shoot tighter groups than I do?”
“Well, I’d say you’re probably looking at the entire target when you shoot, the whole paper. Try just concentrating on the bullseye and always take the same sight-picture. By doing that, you’ll quickly learn whether the problem is yours or a scope that needs adjusting. Forget the paper around the bull, in other words. In fact, here’s what we’ll do for the shoot-off.” I found a jagged-edged bottle cap inside the camp, walked out, paced off a long 30-yards, then punched it into a decaying sycamore along the creek. “Pop! I’ll never hit that little thing!”
“You will if you concentrate and believe in yourself. And there’s no paper around it to distract you.” I could see the concern on his face. I shot first and missed – cleanly. The bottle cap remained in place. I handed him the old, but wonderfully accurate Marlin and said softly, “Concentrate and believe.” After what seemed an eternity, he fired.
As I was walking toward the tree with him, he said, “Well at least I hit close enough to knock it off!” We laughed and as we got to where the bottle cap lay in the weeds, I snatched it from the ground and asked, “Yeah, but do you really think you hit this thing?” He of course, didn’t know as I had it cupped in my hand. I held out the cap and looked at him with a father’s eyes saying, “Justin, always believe in yourself. Believe your can and you shall.” He took the cap which had a hole directly through its center. “Believe, Partner, in deer season, in all of life. And if it’s right for you, the Big Boss will see that it happens.” As he examined the .22 caliber hold dead-center through the bottle cap, the look in his eyes was priceless, beyond description. And the KP duties were mine alone…
That season went as beautifully as the Red Gods could allow. Justin out-shot me and even went so far as to mercilessly take those grays that were already in my sights. He was quicker, more confident and had a sharper eye than his Old Man, and, even though he never said so, I know he knew it. We laughed when he shot a gray as soon as I spotted it. We laughed at a lot of things, to include the cold, stinging rains of autumn. We were enjoying a hunting season – together…
Still, deer season was riding a fast wind. And he wanted a whitetail as much as anything in the world. He’d one to his credit but it didn’t matter, I wanted his annually renewed dream to come true more than anything I could think of.
We each, of course, knew of the ever-important luck factor involved; of the deer having to do their “part,” and we hunted long and hard most of the season. Luck wasn’t in our corner, it seemed – and time was in short supply. I kept hope alive, but could see in his eyes, that his was melting away. Just a little advice seemed in order, an occasional, “Keep the hope, Son. Believe, and remember the bottle cap if you do get a shot…”
The dawn of the last day came slowly. My eyes were heavy, tired from a near-sleepless night and Justin’s movements indicated he, too, was worn thin from hunting long, cold and difficult days back to back. He’d passed on a small buck opening day because he wasn’t certain he could put it down to stay with the shot he was afforded. And now, as we thought of that decision, we realized he probably could have and regretted our decision – somewhat. There remained but eight hours to season’s end.
My hope was tepid, still, but only tepid. My legs ached from pushing the Endless Mountains, endlessly. But the love for my son, along with my desire to help him realize yet another dream, kept me going…
It was about 9:30 of this last day when I felt this emptiness. The clock was our nagging, remindful enemy. Justin was wearing down quickly and I, concerned, wondered whether we should continue. Instincts said, “Yes!”
At day’s end, the very last of the deer hunting season, there was some photography to be done as my part of this father and son hunting “team.” And through the camera’s lens, I could see my son kneeling next to his whitetailed deer. There was this strange glistening as I focused on Justin; perhaps the lens? Perhaps my watering eyes? Or even that magical, jewel-like sparkle in his that I knew, now, would be there forever…
At least and certainly it was there at the moment and that’s all that mattered at the time. Thanks in no small part to the grays, the aged hickory, the sentry-like beeches and a scarred little sapling I’ve since named, the hope tree. A small tree I now knew for certain would come back from the “hurt.” And deep inside, I felt this warmth, this almost magical fatherly knowledge that told me, the gap between father and son had never been narrower and to the sky, I whispered a silent, “Thank you…”